Like all art, literature restores us to the world, and the world to us, and restores us also to ourselves, to our powers of judgment and the medium in which they are exercised; it returns us to what is real by opening the possible within the actual, reclaiming life from arid and meaningless necessity, and by so doing, establishing the grounds for faith in or reconciliation with the world.

Or else, it is the stick that scratches the itch for the possible; an exercise of the urge of self-consciousness to strip itself away from self.